"THEOPHILE."

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXI, Issue 6936, 9 February 1884, Page 3 (Supplement)

" THEOPHILE."

[a fact.] Ijs" the early spring of ISS-, at tie beginning o:; the Easter holidays, we started, a party of three, for a Continental ramble of a few months' change of air from the relaxing air of Jersey having been recommended by a medical friend. Our party consisted of my father and mother and myself, a boy a little over sixteen, juat recovered from an attack of measles which had pulled me down considerably, and rendered some change on my account desirable.

Off, accordingly, we set, during the first week of April, having selected St. Malo, rather than Granville, for our port, where I first set foot on French soil, and where I 'remember enjoying to the full that peculiar fascination which the landing for the first time in a foreign land commonly has about it.

All to me was so new and strange ; not so much the language, as I had become to some extent already familiar with the sound of French daring our residence in Jersey. But everything was novel, end wore to me the charm of novelty. The aspect of the country generally, the costumes and manners of the people, the streets with priests and soldiers, the table d'hote, the very food—all contributed to form a whole different from what I had ever met with before ; and the effect upon my boyish susceptibilities proved most exhilarating. A better tonic, truly, in my case, could not have been prescribed. The improvement in me, which seemed to set in with my inhaling the sea breeze upon the passage, supplemented with the change to a new country and its novel ways, was marked and rapid ; and before we had reached the eastern side of France (our destination was Switzerland), the benefit I had derived as regards regaining strength was astonishing.

My object just now being not to furnish an account of our jonrney across France from its northwest corner—a track so well trodden and so familiar to many—but to relate a little incident which, though plainly told, may interest some. 1 shall pass over what I might have to say of what I saw at Avranehes and Caen, and Nantes, and Paris, and Nancy, at which places we stopped, and mention at once that our progress toward the land of the Alps received a check through a letter we found awaiting us at Nancy. Not unwelcome news by any means. On the contrary, the letter was from an uncle, who, his ten years' term of service with his regiment abroad having expired, had come home and had applied for three months' leave of absence, and written to say he would join us on the Continent, and accompany us on our trip. Though the letter brought us up, the announcement it contained was welcome, for Uncle George was a great favourite, and we all longed to see him ; and then ho was a bachelor, and his pockets being expected to be full of money, further reason was furnished for assuming the addition of his company would tend to make things pleasant.

So we were not to enter Switzerland without him; and the question now was, where were we to stay in the maanwhile ? Wβ did not like Nancy at all. It was small, not particularly clean either, and dull in the extreme ; and we felt wo should die of ennui with a fortnight of it. Our question of the hour happening to be mentioued by one of our party at the table d'hote, some one—a commercial traveller, I thiok—suggested Colmar. He knew the town, he said, well. According to his representation, it was just the place to suit us for a short stay. He described it as "nonpas trop gaie, mais nonpas triste du tout: non pas bien qrande, mais assez jollie." There was a garrison there, cavalry and infantry regiments whose bands kept the place alive. Then there was also a nice boulevard outside the town, and cafes in abundnnco, where we might sit and lounge of an evening, sipping cups of coffee while we listened to the bands that played in turn there.

Tha* was quite enough. After a brief council held, it was decided that we should move on to Colir.ar. and there await the arrival of our relative. Whether it has afforded me satisfaction subsequently that we bo decided and came to Colmar I have never been quite able to make up my mind. > I forget the name of the hotel where we put up; but we did not like it. I do recollect, however, that pestilential odours, especially at night, led us after three days' endurance to conclude we must try and secure other quarters. My mother had an aversion to hotels and hotel life ; and, thinking there must be such things as lodgings to be had, she took me out with her in queet of " appartements garnis," calling at well nigh oil the best shops in the town till we were both fairly done up,

but meeting always with the same discouraging reply—there were no such things as " apparlements garnis" at Colmar. So we returned home some what, disconcerted; and after dinner my father.called for bis bill, telling the landlord he feared he must leave in the morning, and candidly adding the reason why. • . The French are an odd people; some of them very pleasant to deal with. Such was Monsieur , the landlord of this inn. He took so well what my father had to say, the allusion to the bad smells not ruffling him in tho least, while he distinctly avowed his inability to remedy the evil.

"I suppose," observed:my mother, who was a remarkably cool individual, " I suppose Monsieur does not happen to know of any furnished lodgings in the town ?".

" Well, madam," he replied, all politeness, " appartements garnis are not found at Colmar ; mais, attendez un moment; there is a friend of mine, a Government employe, who occupies a house adjoining the.faubourg. I have known him to take in some lodgers to oblige me when my hotel has been full. He might, perhaps, accommodate you." : There are not many English? hotel-keepers, probably, who would have ahown the like readiness to oblige customers leaving on account of the alleged drawbacks to their houses. Our host's objections had, however, the effeot of starting my mother and me off afresh in the evening, this time in a fiacre— we were so tired—whioh in a few minutes brought us up at the door of. Monsieur Bertrand.

Madame Bertrand, a very pleasant woman, and quite a lady in manner, received us ; and on hearing our errand, and being told how many we were in family, said she thought she could take us in, and though not in the habit of letting lodgings, and so forth, she would'do her best to make us comfortable.''

Though we were quite unexpected, the house wae in apple-pie order, and in point of cleanliness presented a marked contrast with the quarters we were leaving. The rooma were well furnished, and the look-out upon the promenade or boulevard delightful. The rent asked for the accommodation we wanted was ridiculously low ; so my mother at once concluded the transaction, and it was arranged that we should bring our things and take up our abode there tho next morning.

We did uot see Monsieur Bertrand ; but in one of the rooms shown us we found a young lady playing the piano, who, on our entering, rose to greet us with that easy grace which characterizes, certainly, the better classes of the French. She appeared to be about my own age, perhaps a trifle older, very nice looking, and reminded my mother and myself of a sister of mine, whom we had lost two years previously. Her death had been a terrible, blow. My mother had been wrapped up in her, and was wont to look with a sort of envy upon other mothers that had been spared such a trial; and-when she came across a case like this, mother and daughter spared to one another to minister to each other's mutual happiness, ehe would almost manifest in her manner what was passing in her thoughts. I noticed as she shook hands with Theophile her eyes rested on the girl with a look of peculiar interest, while, truth to tell, I felt conscious of an interest in her too.

We effected our change of quarters in the course of the following forenoon as proposed; and a few days sufficed to prove we had mended matters ao far by eo doing ; and happening to receive another letter from Uncle George to the effect that owing to some hitch he would not be able to join us for a month or six weoks, we congratulated ourselves with having met with a logement where there was every prospect of our pasting the interval very pleasantly.

The Bertrands were a" superior sort of people. They would, I suppose, have ranked among an upper middle claas, though in point of manner and nice feeling they were gentlefolk all over. Theophile was an only daughter, and as such was, ; naturally, thought an immense' deal of by both father and mother; while her having no brothers nor sisters, and consequently eo much the companion of her parents, rendered her more of the woman than most girls of her age. My mother took a great fancy to her, a circumstance which seemed by no means disagreeable to the father and mother. My parents were in the habit of taking a country walk daily, in which I accompanied them. Theophile was asked to join us, whioh she generally did ; and I remember, when anything chanced to prevent her coming with us, the afternoon walk was not, to me, somehow, at all the name thing, Theophile was musical and played the piano with some execution. I had learned tho piano also ; and although she was far the better performer of the two, I was quite up to the mark of taking the bass part of a duet; and many a pleasant hour waa wbiled away over soma of Schulhoff's or Thalberg's compositions. Then Theophile, who could not speak a word of English, fancied she would like to make a beginning, the thought occurring to ub both that the opportunity now presenting itself waa not to be thrown away. So I willingly constituted myself her tutor in English ; and well do I recollect her persistent though vain attempts to master the th, pronouncing it as a d, like most French people do, and'how heartilyshe laughed when I explained to her the effect of giving that sound to jt in the case of some such word as thirty. Being too frequently thrown together, it would be.no matter of surprise that an intimacy, and a rather close one, ehonld spring up betwoen us ; and for my part I felt' 1 was getting fonder of her daily. Though for my age I had seen a good deal of society (for Jersey is a gay place for young folks), it seemed to «ne, among all my fair and young acquaintances, there was no one like Theophile. Sho liked me, too, I persuaded myself; her expressive eyes said as much, though ohe did not actually tell me in -words. There were those, too, beside myself, young French fellows, some older than I, who found Theophile an attractive girl. They used to call, and she seemed to be evi very friendly terms with some of them, which I did not like at all; and I remember feeling by no means happy one afternoon when I saw Theophile and one of these young visitors walk out together; how I took note of the tinie they were gone, and speculated, though I had too much pride to ask her the question, where or bow tho three hours could havo passed that they were absent. So annoyed was I indeed, silly youth that I was, that I kept out of the way and would not see her when in the course of the same evening she came into her sitting room. I had, however, recovered myself in the course of the next day, and we were as amicable as ever.

Among the visitors to the house wae one whom I very soon perceived to be no friond of mine. This was a priest, one Fore Jacques, whose manner toward mo showed plainly enough his sentiments towards the jeune Anglais. He would coma into the room where I was and pretend not to see me. He would ridiculo England and English ways in my presence. If I met him in the street, which occasionally 1 did, he would pass me without the slightest recognition, and in many ways, showing the smallness of the man—ho was about thirty—ho evinced a decided antipathy to me. This was shown almost from the first; and yet I had given him no ofl'enoe and for some time 1 was unable to account for his animosity. I had thought it was owing to tha difference in our creeds. That was not the reason. But this Father Jacques became the thorn in my very side. He was frequently at.the house, and I was continually coming across him ; and it annoyed mo greatly to see the influence he appeared to havo over the Bertrands. I had abstained, however, from referring to Father Jacques , behavior to me, and indeed should never have mentioned the man's name to the family but for a little matter that occurred, and rendered some allusion to him almost unavoidable. ■ One afternoon when Monsieur Bertrand had, as usual, gone to his office, and Madame was out shopping, Theopbile, happened to be left at home alone. '

" Iβ Theopliile coming out with us to-day ?" inquired my mother. " I do not know," I replied. " Shall I go and ask her 2" "Do." I accordingly wont up stairs, and, as was my habit, tapped gently at the door of the room where I gonorally found her. There was, however, no answer to my gentle knock ; it had not been heard. I did not knock a second time, assuming the room was empty, but opened the door and stepped in. Not a little surprised was I at what I saw. Here were Father Jacques and Theophile by themselves. They were both Heated. He had hold of her left hand, and, bending forward from his seat, was looking up in Theophile's face, addressing her with the most empressme.nl, while Theophile, with her faoo averted aiid her right hand shading, as it were, her eyes, was evidently profoundly affected by what the priest was saying to her, looking down upon tho floor, silent. I, of course, apologized for this intrusion, and at onoe withdrew, and a few minutes after I heard

Father Jacquee' footsteps, on the stairs, and from the window, saw him walk away. "Iβ Theophilo not coming ?" again asked my mother.

"No, Ithink not, this afternoon," I felt strongly inclined to let my mother know what I had just witnessed up stairs; but some indescribable feeling restrained me from doing so. She, however, seemed to suspect something, probably from my manner, and she added : "I hope nothing has gone wrong : I mean that there has been no little tiff between Theophile and you." " Oh, dear, no !" Ireplied, "we could not be better friends."

Fearing, however, that she might retain a hankering suspicion that there, had been an interruption of the entente cardiale that hitherto had subsisted between us, I thought it just as well to add that I had found Theophile and Father Jacques together. "Alone?" "Yes; alone."

My mother said nothing, but I could see the circumstance set her a-thinking. So it did me. I was puzzled, and something more, at what I had witnessed. What could Pere Jacques have been saying to Theophile? Could it be upon religious matters that this priest—odioue fellow, as I thought him—was lecturing her ? Could it have anything to do with the confessional? Then, too, what business bad he to be holding her hand ? How I longed to see the girl! But, then, would the mystery be cleared up by her when I did ?

"Good morning, Theophile! Wβ missed you in our walk, yesterday," were my first words her the next day, as I entered the same room where I had beard her playing overhead.

" Ah, good morning ; so glad to see you !" she replied, colouring just a little, but manifesting no confusion as she did so. " You had a nice walk, I dare say. The day was charming!" "I am afraid you must have thought me very ill-mannered yesterday, Theophile, in entering your room before hearing you say 'enlrez.' But, do you know, I knocked as usual."

"Did you knock? I did not hear you. But it did not signify." " I do not think Pere Jacques would havo said it did not signify, Theophile; I do not like that Pere Jacques."

" You do'not like him 1 Have yon, then, any reason for not liking him ?" "Hβ dislikes me. I can see it."

At this remark Theophile seemed rather embarrassed, and after a. moment's pause I summoned up courage to add: "Bat I see he likes you."

Theophile blushed ; but, recovering herself quickly, she replied: "So you have noticed that, also, have you ? Well, perhaps you are right. But tell me why you think he does not like you ?"

" Oh! his maraner shows it. You know his aversion to me. I wish, you would tell me why he dislikes me so. I don't think he likes your being so much with us." (I did not like to say with me). "I am afraid I'll have to let him see that I am—" "That you are what? You must tell me." " Must 1 1 Well, so fond of you." Here was my first confession. I had long wanted to make it in some form or other. Theophile had not given me the opportunity. I recollect as if it had been but yesterday, how my voice shook, as I disclosed what in all sincerity I felt toward her, and my cheeks turned orimson.

Theophile coloured too, deeply, on hearing this tender disclosure, and replied :

"Really! I cannot think what you have found in me that you should like me so. I am sure I ought to fell very happy."

What would have delighted me to hear was some corresponding confession on her part; just a word to let mo see the feeling was mutual. But it came not, though I waited. However, I resumed :

'' Theophile, answer me. Am I not right ? Does not Pere Jacques think me very fond of you ; and doe 3 he not dislike me on that account 1"

" .Not altogether. He hsa another reason, something like what you suspect, though not exactly it." -

" Something like what I suspect! What can you mean '! Do tell me."

"I cannot. Not just now, at any rate. Perhaps, though, I may at some other time." I did not press it ; but the feeling, I euppose, that in this Father Jacques 1 had a sort of rival and a decided foe, led me to return to the charge.

" Father Jacques is very often at your house, Theophile ; what does lie call so frequently for ?" " He is our prießt."

"Is he, then, obliged to call because he is your priest, and so often i Our clergymen at home does not call once in six months."

" With Catholics it is different, I suppose."

" Bat what can he have to talk about all the time ? Such long visits as he pays, I wish you would tell me. Now, what was he saying to you yesterday 1" " I do not think I am quite at liberty to tell you." " Some secrets, then, I suppose, that yon may not disclose." "No, no secrets that I should at all mind disclosing. My mother knows all about it."

" Then why cannot you tell me? Yon did not seem pleased, 1 thought." "Probably not; but Father Jacques would not approve of my mentioning the matter;" " Not to me ?" " Not to you ; and yet I do not know why I should not tell you. He need not know that 1 havo Promise me not to reveal it if I tell you—will you?" "Of course I will reveal nothing you communicate to me in confidence."

" Well, the truth is, - he is trying to pursuade me to enter a Convent." "What a wretch !"

"Hush. Do not talk so. Remember he is my spiritual adviser, and I must not listen to you if you speak so of him'" "And are you'going ?" said I eagerly. " What an interest you appear to take in me."

"Are you going to enter a convent? do you say." " I do not know. Ido not desire it. I shall try and avoid doing so, but "

" Theophile, you will think me very inquisitive ; but what can Father Jacques , reason be for wanting to shut you up?" " Oh, he says it will be for my good. He declares I shall be much happier if I give up the world and devote myself to the service of our holy church. Besides which, he will be better able, he aays, to attend to my spiritual interests." "How? Would he be in the convent, too ?" "Hβ is connected with the convent he wishes me to join." "Oh, Theophile !" I exclaimed, unable to suppress my concern and indignation, "you make me very sad. How much I shall think of you after we have left Colmar. I shp.ll be wondering, when I am miles away, whether you have given in to that horrid man." "But you are not going away for some time yet, are you ?"

" Yes, lam sorry to say. We expect my uncle next week, and we are to start for Switzerland, I think, the day after his arrival."

Theophile was silent, disconcerted, evidently, at my allusion to our leaving. We continued talking together for some little* time longer, not so oheerily by any means as usual; but before we separated I again recurred to the question 1 had asked her about Father Jacques.

" Before wo part, tell me. Theophile— again I ask you.—why is it Father Jacques dislikes me so? You said I had nearly guessed the reauon." " No; I did not say that. You asked me whother it was because he thought you liked me, and I eaid that it was not tho real reason, though something like it." " Well, then, what is the reason ? I shall give you no peace till you tell me." "You are very persistent. Well, Father Jacques has suspicions that—he says, indeed, he is sure—that—"

"That what?" I broke in, all the more eager to hear what my young friend eeemod reluctant to divulge. " That what ?"

" That I like you ! There, now, you have it. Are you satisfied ? Do not aek me any more." And she threw herself back in her chair, and covered her face with her hands.

That was all I wanted. I was satisfied. There noed be now no doubt that Theophile loved me, and I felt delighted. I had also got at the seoret of this priest's dislike to me. Theophile was fond of me ; he saw it, and it made him hate me. I afterwards learned that this "spiritual adviser," as she styled him, in remonstrating with her parents, used to take his stand upon religious ground, and dilate upon the peril of any intimacy being maintained—the irreparable mischief, indeed, that mignt ensue between Theophile, tonne Calholique as she was, and one of a heretical creed like myself; but happily without effect. Her parents treated me with the same cordial courtesy, and

the girl continued as nice in her behaviour, to me as ever. So the attachment that. had sprung up between us wjent on without let or hindrance, the interference of this meddling priest notwithstanding. And thus, whether our mutual parents tailed to sec it, or seeing it oared not to take notice of this intimacy, I know not; • but it was so that Theophile and I, young things of sixteen and seventeen, were suffered to become as attached to each other as any two lovers of maturer years could possibly have been. We had now passed three months at Colmav, and as I had told Theophile, we were expecting my uncle in the coursei of a few days, when I was taken ill. Some form of low fever which had shown itsolf in the place selected :ne for one its-victimn, my recent attack of measles predisposing me, it may be, for the malady. I remember trying to shake it off for a day or two, vainly trying to fight against the peculiar lassitude with which the attack commenced, and then having to give in and take to my bed. How miserable I was! With all the feelings of over-fatigue, yet unable to lie still; thirsty in the extreme, yet unable to swallow any one of the varied beverages that they brought me ; what is still worse, unable to sleep. A sense of drowsiness would come over me, but no sooner had I yielded to it than all sorts of hideous visions wonld present themselves to my disordered brain that quickly scared me baok to wakefulness. Yet 1 was too weak to resist this delusive slumber. I would strain every nerve to keep my eyes wide open, but the eyelids would grow heavy and sleep would overcome me— instantaneous sleep only, for scarce would I have closed my eyes before I was awake again, uttering as I returned to conuciousness, a cry of terror. At times, too, I_ was delirious, rambling incoherently, mixing up places and people in a manner that, at other times, would have amused those that heard me, or else I wonld ohriek out for proteotion from the malignant priest, who appeared as ray chief persecutor. I was getting worse ; waxing weaker daily. I felt it; but so unspeakably wretched was I, that I longed for deatb. Those about me made up their minds that I was going. The doctor had said he feared I could not rally. On one occasion, when he thought I was asleep, or would not catch what he said, I distinctly heard the words " Peut pas duret!" Had I had the strength, I should have turned and said, " Tant mieux!" Chancing, on another occasion, to be left alone for a few minutes, as I lay with .my eyts toward.the half-open door, a face presented itself to take a peep of curiosity—the very last face I wished to see—that of Father Jacques, wearing more than its accustomed loo'i of hate, with a bitter smile of satisfaction, I suppose at my prostrate condition, coupled with a shake of the head, were bestowed upon me as the odious face withdrew.

I had now lain ill nine days, rarely answering if spoken to, and not recognizing those in attendance upon me, when I lei), into a deep sleep that lasted several houre. My mother, worn out with constant watching, was resting on a couch close by, while Theophile stood, as it were keeping guard at my bedside, on the look-out for any change that might come over me, when I woke acd the eyes that first met mine were the bright eyes of my fair watcher—Theophile. Yes, there was that sweet face, recognised now by me for the first time for many days; and languid as I was, I recollect well mustering juet sufficient energy to say in a whisper, " Theophile!" From that moment I began to rally. The malady had run a certain course, and the crisis was past. Signs of returning appetite began to show themselves, and my slumbers forthwith ceased to be disturbed with the terrors that had been wont to haunt them, The doctor, however, who , , by the way, treated my case most skilfully, warned my friends that I should need greiit care, and that any injudicious exertion might cause a relapse that would probably prove fatal. So I had to make up my mind to a short season of convalescence, and to be treated stiil as an invalid while strength gradually returned. The contemplated trip to Switzerland had been interfered with ; but now that I was getting better it was talked about afresh, and it was decided that we should start for Basle as soon as I should appear equal to the journey. My uncle, who arrived soon after I was first taken ill, was disposed to take the blame to himself for having caused our detention at Colmar, but for which, perhaps, I should have escaped this attack of fever. It was still, however, only July, and so plenty of the summer remained for carrying out our projected excursion. .•-... •- Truth to tell, I was by no means eager for the time of our leaving to arrive. The interim of my convalescence was pleasant enough, Theophile being to some extent my attendant as well as companion, Her piano-playing I X found more grateful than ever, and then by way cf variety, she would take up an English book, and read or attempt to read it with the sole object of amusing me with her prounciation of the language. Many soft sentiments passed, too between us, more it may be than were suspected or would have been quite approved by others. That we liked each other was no secret, but the depth of the attachment which, had sprung up between us was hardly realized by my / relatives. But this pleasant time was not to last. At the expiration of three weeks—from the time when my illness took a favourable turn, I was pronounced by the doctor quite well enough to take an easy journey, and indeed he recommended my removal without delay. So the day came for .us to take leave of Colmar and the Berbrands. I shall never forget that day, I felt the parting terribly. My father and unole had started on foot for the station, while my mother and I were to follow in the fly which was waiting at the door ; so, amid the earnest entreaties of the coclier to depecher or we should lose tbe train, we mutually bid farewell. "Adieu, Theophile !" was all I could trust myself to say ; but I made bold in saying so to salute, after the manner of the country, the cheek of this sweet French girl, while with a moistened eye and a perceptible tremor in the voice, she faintly replied, "Au revoir !" and we drove away. Wa3 I ever to see Theophile again ?

We travelled as far as Basle that day; and from thence we started the following morning on a two months' tour through a country justly termed the' playground of Europe, presenting as it does charms in the way of scenery, &c, which probably no other land under the sun has to offer, especially to those visiting it for the first time. Had we come direct to Switzerland, as we bad at first intended, how delightful would this trip have been to me 1 But our detention at Colmar by the way tended to modify considerably the enjoyment which it would otherwise have afforded me, and more than once was I asked somewhat reproachfully how it was I did not manifest more interest in all that was so new and so enchanting in the way of scenery. Berne Jind Interlaken, Lucerne, and Chamounix, and Geneva, were ait visited in turn, till October, with its chill air, overtaking us, it was decided that we should turn homeward and seek the comfort of the English fireside.

For some days it had been a matter of debate which route we should select for the return jour Hey, and it had been resolved that we should take the rail direct to Paris, and there expend the residue of loose cash our party happened to retain. But it so happened that my uncle, who was troubled with some ailment or other, had while at Colmar consulted the French niedccin that attended me, and having been treated more skilfully by him than by others at home whom he had consulted, expressed a wish to see the man again. Out of consideration for us, he proposed that we should go to Paris without him, while he went round by Colroar to meet us at the French capital. And I really think this suggestion of his would have been adopted but for me. The possibility of seeing Theophile once more—just once—had, lam afraid, something to do with it; but I ventured to give it as my opinion that it would be much better if we kept with Uncle George.

"At any rate let me go with him. He has been so kind to me. lam sure he likes having me with him."

"Yes, let him come with mfe" chimed in my kind relative, pleased evidently at the reluctance 1 evinced to separate from him. Ty this proposal ray mother at firsl; demurred on the ground that I had suffered enough already from my visit to Colmar, expressing at the same time surprise that I should not prefer avoiding all risk of another attack of fever. Her objnctions were, however, overruled. We were only to pass one night there. We were to put up at the hotel, not at the Bertrande'; and I think something was said about not going near the house. So my unole and I started for Colmar, leaving my father and mother to make their way to Paris. It waa about three in the afternoon when we alighted at the door of the hotel, the same that we had stopped at when we came in April, and my uncle having ordered dinner at six, went iD quest of hia late medioa) adviser, leaving me to pass the intervra %a 1

thought; proper, after bidding me to be cj fnl to bear in mind the dinner honr.

Not many moie minute 3 than v necessary were contained, as will be suppo; ia making myself safficiently tidy after railway -journey for the visit which, I been promising mytelf for some days pi nor had many seconds, after my uncle left the hotel,- elapsed, ere I set out Theophile's abode. How my heart throb at the prospect of meeting her! How we she receive me ? ■ Would she be the sam' me—quite—as when I last saw her ? J then—and thought had troubled much by the way—should I find her at hoi I had not liked to write and tell her I coming. I now half regretted I had done so. However, I reached the hoi the street door, as usual, was open walked upstairs and knocked at the doc the sitting-room the family had been won occupy. Madame Bertrand was alone, received me courteously, indeed, as ei but she seemed much depressed about so thing, she did not say what, and congri lated me on having regained my good lo< observing that I had apparently deri great benefit from my sojourn in Switzerls After sitting come little time, and Tl phile not appearing, I could restrain my no longer and asked the question, " Ho Theophile ?" "Ah, Monsieur J" she replied, giving i to the feelings she bad up to this mon lepressed, and bursting into tears, " 1 phile n'est plus !"

What 1 felt on hearing this annou ment I shall not attempt to describe; bi question whether a dagger thrust into heart would nave caused me greater angu We neither of us spoke for some minn both being overcome with emotion ; bul recovering hereelf sufficiently, she told how, shortly after we had left Coltnar, dearly twloved daughter had been attac with the name epidemic which so nearly me low, SiHd after lingering for some tl weeka, sank under the attack.

" Oh, Madame '." exclaimed I, "ie it sible I am no more to see Theophile loved Theophile!"

" Yes, Monsieur, I know it; and she lc you, too. Her laafc words to you I he. They were 'au revoir.' But she has £ au del to a fairer land than this, where < giant you may meet. Would Monsieur to see the spot where my cherished reposes now in peace ? Then oorne with n

Before quitting the house, howeMadame Bertrand asked me whethei should like a small memento of her child.

" I should prize it greatly," was any rej Daring her illness the doctor had rec mended that her hair be cut off quite sh and her mother had kept it. She presei me with a lock which, as I took it from hand, I pressed to my lips, and than her nincerely.

Wβ walked together in silence to burial ground, whither all that was mo of dear Theopfaile had been conveyed & six weeks before. A wreath of frei gathered flowers lay upon the grave, whi plain white cross, bearing the simple insc tion, " Theophile Bertrand, age de 17 ai told briefly the tale of a comely flo prematurely stricken down, a choice that had withered and passed hence for e After bidding Madame, farewell I m my way back to our hotel, feeling nnut ably miserable, with a weight upon heart which time, as it.went on, scarce seel to lighten. ' It is twenty-five years since this incic occurred, and I am still single. I- 1 sometimes mused to myself what might 1 been my course had I not paid Colmar a n on our return journey, and never heard story of Theophile's end. Perhapn attachment to her might have abated such attachments formed in youth often As it is, however, the sweet memoir Theophile has, as yet, undergone no eff meat; and I have no desire that it sho' —Ternple Bar.